Tag Archives: women

FREEDOM LOVER

I am not a freedom fighter

in the usual way.

I am a freedom lover

day after threatening day.

I will not duck and run for cover

when bullies blare the call.

I will not turn away my eyes

from all their dubious lies.

I will not fret and stomp my feet 

to match their ugly fascist beat.

I may be small.

I may be weak.

I may be old.

I am not meek.

I am strong to even my surprise.

I grow stronger with every sun-rise.

My strength grows in numbers.

My flower joins the bouquet

my fragrance rousing passion

for my beloved USA.

I cannot let silence stand guard.

I cannot pretend and play

while others fight for freedom

day after day, after day, after day.

My power is a loving blanket

thrown over the fires of hate.

Lovers of freedom, unite.

It is never…never…too late.

I may be old.

But, I am a woman and bold,

as only women know how to be.

I may be sick and weak.

But, I am not meek.

Freedom still smells sweet.

Lift your eyes and feet

and spread love for freedom

along with me.

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Let an old hippie show you the way.

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TRY TO DREAM

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I try to keep dreaming.

But, nightmares interrupt

and catch the seam of hope

and fray the edges 

of the dream.

The night unravels hopes.

Morning brings new light,

but very little, if any, insight

as I try to piece together

a new garment to weather

the storms brewing overhead.

Nothing makes sense.

Every hand is out for cash

to fight the good fight

already lost, and still fraught

with the need to try  

to stand,

to grasp hands,

to still the fright.

Yet, dreams turn to nightmares

day after day and

night after night.

Joy can only bend so far 

and grace hold up heads and hearts

only so long before the silent song

erupts in outrage and disgust.

We do what we must. 

But, dream ? I am no longer sure

that dreams will endure.

All I can promise is

I shall try to keep dreaming

forevermore.

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BY THE WAYSIDE

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Yesterday I fell

by the wayside

where hopelessness dwells.

The journey upward felt

like a forced retreat,

no longer a climb

on confident feet

to reach the summit

where love presides,

where ego lives above false pride.

Instead, the slope had become slippery

and I,

and I, 

and I

fell to my knees

my hopes subsided.

There is no time for this

I have decided.

I may slip again

and all my hopes fail 

but, I will stay on freedom’s trail.

The climb ahead 

becomes more rugged.

And I become stronger

the longer 

I climb.

And I,

And I,

and I

will always go up

where skies are blue,

to reach others

willing to climb

up 

from the other side.

This I promise myself

and I promise you.

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ART

JUST BREATHE, acrylic on canvas, painted the day Trump was elected president by Louise Annarino. He is still making it hard to breathe.

Art seldom follows

where there is nothing new to see.

Art creates new eyes

new ears, new hearts to set us free.

Art imagines what minds can’t comprehend

forging new beginnings as old ways end.

Politics is an art form

tossing power to and fro 

showing us what we really think

and where we might go.

Art is everywhere we look

showing us what we need to know.

Art has no end date;

its timeliness simply portends.

Vote! it is still not too late.

Art is our dearest friend.

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SWEET LITTLE OLD LADIES

Photo by SHVETS production on Pexels.com (THIS IS NOT MY NEIGHBOR…LAnnarino)

This is the face of white supremacy,

the sweet little old lady

who lives down the street from me.

She praises the Walz-Harris and 

Sherrod brown signs in my yard.

She gleefully says they make her happy.

I offer the extra signs I have to put in her yard.

She gracefully declines, “my family

would make it hard on me.

Photo by Life Matters on Pexels.com

“So, your family bullies you,” I reply.

Taken aback I watch her smile fade.

“Yes,” she says,” I suppose that’s true.”

“It is just that Black people are so…”

her hands in the air waving away thought…

“They want to take over the country, but ought not.”

“Do you hear what some white people shout,

about taking over government to have their way?

Do you fear them taking over the country?” I say.

A look of confusion crosses her face.

I ask if she thinks every white or Black person

is the same, and if blanket descriptions are really O.K.

This sweet little face now looks away.

Then turns with a frown and admits it’s unfair.

I have family who are MAGA, too, I explain.

If they do not like my signs I simply reply

that they should put out their own signs

and take responsibility for their incivility.

She tells me she is really afraid,

for once glad to be old with death on its way.

I remind her of all dangers she has faced.

I smile and encourage her to take her place

among our past heroes who gave voice to renew

the promise of America for me and for you.

I promise her she is stronger than even she knows,

that together we are strong enough to fight any foe.

I remind her everyone fears what the future portends

She nods and she smiles but her eyes tell a different story

She yearns for the time when being white

meant she could claim control and full glory.

I am an old white lady, but have never been sweet.

Being real is neither pretty nor neat.

I handle truth in its complexity,

dirtying my hands and feet

placing signs in my yard,

refusing to give in to hate and racism.

Ugly truth-teller is my only “ism”.

Silence is complicity.

Fear and hate do not deserve pity.

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FUTURE WAITS

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Future refuses to talk.

She holds her cards close.

No expression crosses her face.

Her fierce calm holds us in place.

We gamble our fortunes, our lives,

within her unfathomable space.

Withholding breath we wait

to discover our curious fate.

“Play the cards you have,” 

she says,“before it is too late.”

The game here now will last until

each card has been played.

Holding onto cards 

means new presents are delayed.

The young know this better

than their elders do.

The young play with greater abandon,

unconscious of the heavy stakes

that keep my eyes open all night through, 

awake, until light from a new day

through the closed blinds seeps through.

A new day.

A new game.

Time to play.

Future cuts the cards.

No time to waste.

Vote!

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TEAR DOWN THE WALLS

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Let me tell you. Being a woman who is fully human is not a given. It is always a hard-won position. Too many dismiss women as not fully human. Women and their ideas are called “empty-headed.” Women are called “weak-willed.” Women are called “frail.” Men are are not thought to brainless or empty-headed. Men are not thought to lack willpower. Men are not expected to be weak. There are stronger and more respectful words for men. I am all for respecting men. I only ask for the same in return. I do not always get that respect. Even if I had remained in my hometown, married a “nice Italian-Catholic boy” which was my parents’ most fervent hope, I would not have been able to avoid such disrespect. But, I might have had a man to come to my defense. More likely, not. Men know how to avoid a fight. Their lives depend on reconciliation to  bullies. Male aggression can be a fierce and unpredictable experience; especially, by men with gangs behind them. 

Bullies come in all guises. They are not just “street toughs” with cigarette packs stored in the rolled-up sleeves of their tee shirts, tatooed sleeves exposed in warning messages as in my childhood neighborhood. Boys and girls both learned to give them a wide berth. Bullies also exist in board rooms, school rooms, and court rooms.

I did not stay and be a well-behaved little girl all my life. I became a lawyer. I entered courtrooms where early-on I was usually the only woman to make an appearance on a client’s behalf that day. Maya Wiley, spoke of her experience as a lawyer yesterday, in an appearance on MSNBC. Ms. Wiley carries two strikes against her. She is not only female; but, like former Prosecutor and Attorney General of California Kamala Harris, she is  a woman of color. She is Black. She lives in a world where the unspoken message is, “If you are Black, step back.” This is the silent message in the brain of too many Americans. I am a white woman. Yet, I find some empathy in our positions as a female.

Ms. Wiley mentioned episodes in her practice of law as a federal district attorney which matched my own experience. The judge, despite her presence at the Justice department table ready to plead her case, pretended not to know she was an attorney. The judge dismissed her entire identity in that moment. He cut her. She bled. She still bleeds.

On several occasions early in my career I made an appearance on behalf of a client. I sat with other attorneys, all men, in the courtroom waiting for my case to be called. It was called and I approached the Bench. “Good morning, your Honor, I am Louise Annarino, an attorney with the Legal Aid Society. This is my client…the plaintiff in the case before you today.” Standard introduction. Not a standard response from the judge, however. Instead he said with a smirk toward my opposing counsel, a man, “Young lady, you cannot just waltz in here without a lawyer. Come back after you get one. Next!” 

Holding back my anger at his attempt to shame and dismiss me…and my female client…from “his” courtroom, I answer, “ Your Honor, I am an attorney. I am representing this woman who is my client. Let me repeat for you that I am a lawyer from the Legal Aid Society.” He responded,

“And, I told you you must be a lawyer to represent this client.” By this time my client leaned in and whispered to me, “I thought you were a lawyer!” I could barely hear her over the laughter of the male attorneys seated behind me awaiting their cases to be called. The judge laughed with them. I did not. I said, “Perhaps you are not listening to me, or are hard of hearing. I shall give you the befit of the doubt.” I am a licensed attorney in the state of Ohio and I am not going anywhere.” He heard my case. My client had her successful day in court. We both bled that day.

I returned to the office and told my colleagues what had happened. A woman attorney said, “Oh my, I forgot to warn you, we women always carry our license with us and lay them on the bench before we start.” I took my license off the wall and put it into my briefcase. I wish I could say that was the only episode, but it was not. Not every judge, nor every attorney cut me. But, I still bled. I bleed writing this account. All women bleed. We have become experts at stanching the flow. Right now, you are thinking of jokes about our menses ever month. Stop it! Those bleeds bring new life into the world. We honor those bleeds. We do not honor the dishonor of men cutting us down to size where we can be ignored as not fully human, not fully equal; cut and bled.

Kamala Harris was interviewed my Mika Byrezezinski at a Know Your Value Conference in San Francisco describing what it was like to face barriers of discrimination and break down walls. She said, “‘When you break things, it is painful. You get cut, and you bleed, and it will be worth it — But be very clear. It will be and can be a very painful process.’ Kamala Harris knows this. Maya Wiley knows this. I know this. Every woman who breaks down barriers knows this. Women break down barriers every day…int their homes, at their businesses, in boardrooms, in school rooms; and yes, in courtrooms. They break down barriers in friendship relationships, in love relationships,  in business relationships. We still do not have an ERA (Equal Rights Amendment). Why do men need barriers from women? We love them. We respect them. We honor them. It is time for them to do the same. And to those women, too afraid to break down such barriers, we get it.  We know the position you are in. We bleed for you, too.

We say to all people, as Reagan said to Khrushev, “Tear down this wall” so that none of us need bleed ever again. Vote for Kamala Harris in November. We need each other. We need each other healthy, whole and safe.

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DEFAMATION

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Words can cut too close to the bone. 

Words’ outside meaning fires the skin.

Words’ inside meaning, hidden from view

fires up hateful spew, just as true.

Words can cut too close to the bone.

splitting back the skin of what we have known.

Words open gaps to see within

what we have long hidden beneath our thin skins.

Words can make the blood flow strong,

too hard and too fast for too long.

Words flow beneath the marrow

to the depths of what we think we know.

Words pulse with their own beat

dancing through bodies to the soles of our feet.

Words leave bloody footprints to follow

until all blood is lost and our souls become hollow.

This is how words kill.

From outside in then out again

opening wounds we did not know

had crusted over wounds from long ago.

Words tear scars opening wounds anew

while ripping apart the peace we had found

to cure and to heal hate with love.

Words tell us love can never be true.

Words tell us love is not real;

if real, then, love is too weak to abide.

Words help us bury love so deep it subsides

and only hate can hold court inside.

Words boost false pride

that I am better than you.

I die inside as I try to kill the few

who speak the truth you once knew.

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ROSE

Rose growing in Louise Annarino’s garden

I should have been named Rose,

for I am full of thorns. 

Those who draw too near,

or dare to touch too readily

may bleed, and dance uneasily.

I turn to the sun in passion’s grace.

I welcome any rains that come.

I am unafraid of blowing winds.

I dodge the hail dumped by storms.

I scent the garden in sweet surrender.

I allow the strong of heart to pluck my blooms.

I await thoughtful gardeners who seek my embrace.

I should have been named Rose.

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MY KNEES HURT

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My skin is now too thin.
it cracks on my feet and bleeds 

from pressure rising inside damaged knees,

throwing legs into a spin

and buckling under the strain

threatening falls again and again.

I hold on with tightened fists

gathered by my side, mislaid

and held in check, afraid

of striking out instead of balancing

against the forces dragging me down.

My body mimics my emotional gown

caught against my legs by autocratic winds

that bind my forward motion,

strangling reality and truthful notions,

knocking my legs out from under me,

demeaning my humanity

with white supremacy.

All I know is how hard it is to stand;

but, how necessary it is in order to outrun

the gerrymandering brigands

who would see democracy undone.

So, on my leg I place a brace

to hold my leg steady

while I rest upon the couch,

heal and make certain I am ready

when it is time to vote hate out.

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